The Call
by ellylilly-pcmh
Summary: "You'll come back when it's over?" "Of course, no need to say good bye" - In which Isobel thinks about her decision to leave Downton and go to France, and Richard realizes to be afraid of losing her. And so they end up at the train-station, in front of her train. Because, Goodness, they should have given us this scene - Title obviously inspired by Regina Spektor's song "The Call".
1. Chapter 1

_**- For Lavender and Hay, happy birthday, my friend, and congratulation for Oxford! -**_

_**- It seems I simply can not write something after the 2012 Christmas Special but I'm trying, I'm trying… in the meantime, the title of this one-shot is taken from the beautiful song "The Call" by Regina Spektor. Do you know it? The lyrics are perfect for Isobel and Richard and when she left for France. It always makes me sappy. So, that song gave me the inspiration, enjoy! -**_

_It started out as a feeling_

_Which then grew into a hope_

_Which then turned into a quiet thought_

_Which then turned into a quiet word_

She looked absently at the small village of Downton passing before her eyes. It was her home, but was it really? Or her heart had remained in Manchester, and she had gone to live in that small village just to follow her beloved Matthew when Lord Grantham had written to inform him that he was his heir? Sure the Crawley Family hadn't welcomed both of them with open arms, and after six years, after the end of the blossoming relationship between Lady Mary and Matthew, the tensions between all of them were still many, too many, to live in peace. Wasn't it the reason why she was going to France?

To be honest with herself, wasn't it the reason why she was leaving the safety and comfort of her life in Crawley House to go to France, at the Red Cross?

As she liked to think that she was doing it just for pure interest in the wounded soldiers in France, she had to admit that she also wanted to leave the oppressive atmosphere up at the Abbey and at the village hospital.

She could not work that way and she was convinced of that. She could not work at the recovery home with Lady Cora blowing on her neck and doing everything possible to impede her, just to prove to be better than her, even without being it. For heaven's sake, she was a qualified nurse, she knew how to do her job, she had already seen the horrors of war and knew how to handle certain situations, while Lady Grantham barely knew how to make a bed or how to prepare something hot for the wounded men up there.

Neither she could work with a man, a superior, who put on the same level her experience and Lady Cora's influence, only for the common good. With a bit of discomfort, she realised that it bothered her more than what was proper. She had expected him to take her stance, that he would give her reason, but instead he placed his mind right between her and Lady Cora, looking for a balance of power rather than the functionality of the recovery house. They were at war: who on earth cared where they ate, who could have the courage to complain if they ate with the injured officers? Apparently the Granthams, who had also done a lot of favouritism, and the doctor in charge of their hospital supported them. No, she could not work on that. She would go to France.

Still, it seemed to her that the news of her departure had shook him. He said they would miss her… and she could only hope he was true in his words, that he would really miss her, because, she realised suddenly, it would hurt her knowing that he would cope at the hospital without her. He would hurt her knowing he will be fine without her, nurse or not.

Irritated by her own thoughts, she slapped her hand against the seat with anger.

"Everything's alright, Ma'am?"

"Yes, Branson, thank you."

"We arrived at the station."

...**...**

He closed the gate at the entrance of the hospital, took his old, black bike and jumped on, quickly riding to the station. There was still time. He could do it. He had to do it. He could not allow her to go away thinking that there she was not appreciated. As for himself, he appreciated her, a lot, probably more than what was proper, also given to the their class difference. But he did not care, she was about to leave, to leave, to leave Downton and to slip into that infernal circle that France was during war-time, and everything of that just because, he was firmly convinced about that, there in Downton, at the great house, she did not feel appreciated.

At least, he hoped that six years after her arrival there, she felt at home, did not missing her life in Manchester, that she understood he needed her there. He hoped he had been able to make her understand it in those years, but if it had not been, he would tell her what was going on there and then.

When she told him that she had decided to leave, when he understood that she believed that he preferred Lady Grantham to her, a small part of him panicked, but he had hurriedly silenced it. If she wanted to leave, she was free to do so. If she thought she could be more useful in France, she was free to leave. He did not, however, estimated that, with each passing day, the concern for her and the feeling of emptiness at the idea she was leaving had increased up to suffocate him, to distract him from his work, to keep him awake at night, worried and anxious. The idea that she would leave and, God forbid, never came back, that something horrible could happened to her while she was on French territory, had awakened all those feelings that he, in six years, had carefully ignored and hidden in a remote part of his head, but never forgotten.

How could he forget all of this, how could he forget her? he thought as he pedalled quickly - why did the station seem so far away? - how could he forget the frustration he felt when she promptly contradicted him, or the momentum of pride when she made a correct diagnosis, even if it means questioning again? How could he forget her kindness and her stubbornness, her gentle smile and her laughter that ultimately he had heard less and less? And her eyes, her delicate perfume of lavender?

He could not forget her, did not want to forget her, and her sudden departure for France had frightened him. He was risking of losing her, losing her before he realised completely what really he felt for her, before he could say her she was precious to him.

With a sigh of relief, he dropped the bike against the wall of the station and jumped inside.

He knew what time her train departed, and the train going to London was just one that morning, he could not not find her.

...**...**

She looked around, suddenly unsure. She had left her few essential luggage to young Branson, and she was sure that him and the porter on duty would have them put on the train in the right compartment.

The platform of the small station was full of people, and the smoke of the train made it even more nebulous and confused.

Wasn't it how she was feeling in that very moment? Alone, as if suspended in a dream, without something, someone, to keep her anchored to that place? Sure, there was Matthew, but he was just somewhere in France... and there was the hospital. Not the big house converted into a recovery house, just the small hospital of the village, the feeling of being useful there, to be appreciated for what she was, a nurse, not the mother of the future Earl of Grantham... being able to physically help people heal... and her strange , particular working relationship with the good doctor, who drove her crazy every two to three, but that respected her and that, despite their frequent debates, always listened to her opinions and valued her… she hoped he still valued her. Seeing how things were going on up at the Abbey, she thought again, he would probably considered her busybody and annoying. And it hurt her.

Something stirred in the back of her mind at the thought of him, but she drove it away, annoyed by the enormity of the revelation.

"Mrs. Crawley!"

She gasped, turning quickly to the familiar and very welcome voice. He was there, wasn't he?

"Dr. Clarkson!" she watched mesmerised his form emerging from the fog, he was slightly out of breath. She managed a polite smile, he really was the last person she expected to be here, but somehow she was happy it was him and none else, as if he had just popped out of her thoughts and materialised in front of her, "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you?" he asked her, a little bit hesitant.

"For me? Why?"

"I..." he paused, as if searching for the words, "I wanted to say good-bye. Since you told me you had decided to go to France... I have not seen you since. I wanted..." his voice failed him again, and he just stood her, watching her uncomfortably.

"It's very kind of you, doctor," she smiled sincerely this time, her eyes lightened up at his discomfort, he was such a nice man... "Thank you. I can not deny that it surprises me, but I can not deny it pleases me too."

"Surprises you?"

It was her turn to look embarrass, but somehow she managed to keep his gaze, suddenly feeling her cheeks reddening, "We do not exactly get along well together, Dr. Clarkson, don't we? More often than not we fight, we disagree, and we breath down each other's neck. So, yes," another gentle smile, "I'm very surprised by you, but in a comfortable way."

"It is not why you are leaving, is it?" he asked hurriedly, "You're not leaving because of our disagreements, right? I can get better, really. I could not bear to know you in France, in danger, because of my -"

"Of course it's not your fault!" she shoot him a warning glance, "It's just that..." her voice left her in the worst moment possible, "I just ..."

"Mrs. Crawley?"

"I'm not useful here, doctor. The family is against me, they prefer to keep their precious house for themselves instead of helping the injured soldiers!," he smiled at her passionate words, her liberalism and her great heart always striking him, "I know I can not stay with folded hands, I need to do something. And I am not useful here."

"You're useful to me, Mrs. Crawley," his reply was a little bit sharp, as if he was annoyed by the fact that she doubted that very argument, and her cheeks blushed again at the vehemence of his words, "For me, you are a precious friend."

More than a friend, shouted his brain, more than a friend, a wonderful woman who was about to leave.

"I do not know what to say," her low murmur took him back to reality, and he looked at her, she kept her head down and stared at her hands, folded tight against her stomach.

"I hope not to have embarrassed you, Mrs.. Crawley."

"Oh, no, no, it was quite flattering, actually. You know, I did not expect such a compliment."

They stood there in silence for long seconds, looking at each another, eyes speaking volumes, eyes telling something that they can not even accept in their minds, let alone speak out aloud. His hands clenched uncomfortably at his sides, and he wanted so badly to simply embrace her, but he knew he could not, and her hands were playing nervously with the embroidered hems of her dark sleeves, her dark eyes never leaving his blu ones. It took the sound of the chimney of the train to make them both left their reveries, and she looked down quickly, suddenly abashed.

"I... I must go. The train's leaving."

"Yes, I... ehr... Your luggages?"

"I am confident that Branson and the porter of the stations have already put them in my compartment."

"Okay, then. May I… may I accompany you to the compartment?"

"Of course." she gracefully took the arm he was offering her, and her small went securely tucked in the crook of his arm, forcefully, almost painfully, but she did not care, she was too busy musing about the fact that it seemed so right, so proper, when she was quite aware it was not...

He escorted her along the train until she stood at the door of her compartment, looking suddenly shy. She was well aware of his hand on the small of her back as they stand in front of her door, more aware than him of his actions, but she smiled at him nevertheless, a hearty smile.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," she murmured, and daringly patted his arm, "Thank you for your... presence, here, for everything."

"Any time," he took a long breath and tried to smile confidently at her, failing miserably, "Be careful, Mrs. Crawley. Just be careful. France will be... dangerous," he lowered his eyes on her hand still on his arm, "It's a war zone."

"I'll not be on the front-line."

"Knowing you, you'll try to get there."

She laughed a little, "Yes, probably", she went serious again when she saw his worried eyes fixed on hers and her cheeks pinked a little, "Will it reassure you to know that I'll stay in Paris, or in any other cities, and do not go near the front-lines?"

"It will," he breathed out in relief, "It will, enormously."

"I promise, then," she squeezed his arm, smiling, "I'll stay in Paris. I promise I'll not try to reach the front-lines."

"And you'll come back when it's over, won't you? Here, in Downton?"

"Of course, no need to say good-bye", she went silent and looked at him for some long seconds, amused, "You sure you want this annoying nurse back at your hospital when the war will be over?"

"I'm already waiting for that very moment!" he declared fervently, taking her hand and holding it tightly.

She blushed and nodded quickly, enjoying the way his hand holding hers, "Very well then," she thrown a glance at the train and frowned, disappointed written all across her face, "Ehr... doctor, I have to go, now," she nudged her hand free and pointed at the train, "It's leaving."

"Yes," he looked at her absently, still amazed but what they have said, by what he had said to her, by her smile. By the fact that he had quickly realised he did not simply admire her, care for her and worry for her, but also desperately love her. And she was leaving without knowing how he felt about her and he was going to let her go without knowing it.

He helped her on the train, her light weight on his arm when she step on the metallic footboard, her back and her hair too much near to his nose… and by God, he decided, he was not going to leave her without making her understand how important she was to him.

"Mrs. Crawley."

"Yes, doctor?" she turned around, a surprised yet amused smile on her lips, "What is it?"

And in a moment he was with her on the small footboard, her slim body pressed between his and the outer wall of the compartment, his mouth on hers in the chastest kiss possible. He gently clenched her lips with his, his hands on her waist, enjoying the few seconds of that kiss. Then he withdrew, he looked at her, searching any sign of regret, but nothing, she was simply smiling trembly at him.

"Please, come back, Mrs. Crawley."

"I will, Richard."

"I'll wait, Isobel."

He left the station suddenly feeling more confident in the future. He would certainly miss her, desperately, and he would be worried for her till he drop, losing his sleep on the thought of her in France, but at least he knew he had made her understand how important she was to him.

In that one kiss, he saw a future full of promise, and hoped with all his heart he was not mistaken. Her last smile to him gave him hope, hope for them, once the war ended.

He lowered his gaze on where he remembered he had left his bike. It was gone.

_**- Reviews always appreciates! Thinking about another chapter, perhaps? -**_


	2. Chapter 2

**- So it took ages to me to write something else about this story, and I'm not sure about it; the style is different, the approach is different, and I forgot about Richard's bike. I just wanted to write about Isobel's return to Downton, but it seems I got a little carried away. Oooooops. Buy the way, I hope you'll like it! -**

* * *

The fog slowly dissipated around the train and he frantically looked around. The platform was full of people, passengers and bellboys, of luggages and small carts, but he knew he was in the right place, at the right hour, he just doubted he would be the right person... no matter what Lady Sybil had supposed or told him.

Again, he looked around. Too many people, too many luggages, but the train was the correct one, the daily train from London, the only one in the morning... and the afternoon train would arrived too late, after the last round of visits. Not that he wouldn't have done an exception for this case, but however it was a too late train.

A small form in the fog.

A blue coat, a blue hat.

Confused movements, as if the person they belonged to was confuse and worried too.

Probably he was imagining it, but he thought he could felt a delicate scent of lavender.

She was back.

"Mrs. Crawley!"

She turned, her expression one of disbelief as he emerged from the fog near to her, and it was like being dragged back again to some months before, back again at her sudden departure for France.

"Dr. Clarkson?"

Everything was back, the sounds, the colors, the sensations, the emotions, and for a long moment everything seemed to stop at that very day some months before. Then the illusion shattered with the whistle of the chimney, and they were drawn back into reality. He, slightly out of breath, reaching for her at the platform, watching her closely as he was afraid she could vanished in front of him, he had waited her for so long; she, perplexed, surprised, astonished by his very presence here, a stupefied smile on her lips.

"What are you doing here?"

Again, another flash, her same very words.

Neither his answer was very different from the previous one, "I'm looking for you," but then, "Lady Sybil told me you were coming back. She told me about your short telegram to the family, about your return, and she thought you would prefer not to meet someone from the family, but..."

He trailed off, lowering his gaze, embarrassed, only to find out that her small hand had already took hold of his lightly outstretched arm, her fingers caressing softly his sleeve.

"But maybe I'd prefer see someone else first?" she smiled softly, but he did not see it, "You, perhaps?"

"It seems so."

"She's very intelligent," Isobel searched for his eyes, but he was still gazing away from her, "It's true. And you're here," her grip on his arm became stronger, "I've received your letter while I was in Paris."

"There's no need to talk about it right now," he told her hurriedly, suddenly, turning to the exit, afraid of that conversation, knowing that, sooner or later, he would have to confront her about that, "You must see your son."

"But, Rich - "

"Branson's out here, he's waiting for us," quickly, he silenced her with one hand on the small oh her back, holding in the other her small bag. Her other luggages would be taken safely to Crawley House later, but now they needed to move fast. He ushered her with some hurry, "He'll take us straight to the hospital."

* * *

Hours later, he closed the door as soon as she was inside the room, and a sigh escaped his lips, so slight that Isobel almost did not hear him. Yet she felt that with her entry into his office, a weight had been lifted from her chest as well as from his, and could not help but turn to him, a thin smile on her lips.

"You come back." murmured Richard hesitantly taking her hand.

"I come back," she squeezed his hand "When you call me."

Richard looked down and his eyes fell on the little envelope she held in the other hand, wrinkled and damaged on the edges as if it had been read so many times. A nagging feeling shut the mouth of his stomach, the awareness to had made her worried; he should not have written that letter... he cursed himself mentally.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Crawley, if I crossed the line, I did not want you to worry about, but I had to inform you and - "

Quickly, she silenced him with her slim fingers on his lips, "No. No. When I received your letter ... together with the telegram from the Army... knowing that you... you already knew of Matthew... that you were trying to comfort me - "

"I should not have, I - "

"Richard," her hand slipped on his chest, patting it gently, and hearing her calling his Christian name made him smile, maybe that kiss at the station hadn't been only a moment of madness, a dream, something impossible... "Your letter was the only thing that kept me from going mad while waiting. Knowing that it was you taking care of my son, here, in Downton... thank you. Not - "

"I'm so sorry, when I heard the news I wanted..." he interrupted her again and immediately paused, searching for the right words and avoiding her sad gaze, her eyes full of tears, "But I could not do much, his wounds were already too serious, and the transport had worsened his conditions... "

He trailed off, looking up at the ceiling, unable to accept the defeat and the disappointment he feared to see in the eyes of the woman he loved. He had written to warn her of her son's condition, to give a human touch to it, but he knew he had disappointed her, he knew he hadn't been able to do his job, to helped her son...

Her hand, as delicate as a feather on her cheek, tore it from his sad thoughts and forced him to turn down his face. Following her caress, he went back to look at her, but his every coherent action was prevented by the sweet feel of her lips on his, by the soft kiss he had long coveted, her lips quickly becoming a devouring, demanding one.

"Isobel… not now, Isobel, we can't, not with your son - "

"I need you to be strong for me. Please"

"My dear, I can't, you are - "

Isobel smiled softly, tenderly caressing the white lapels of his alb, timidly lowering her gaze, "You kissed me when I left, at the train station. Now I need you at my side. I can't… not with my son…"

"I - "

She silenced him with a soft kiss, before resting her forehead on his chin, closing her tired eyes "I took it you did it because you care for me?"

He embraced her, throwing away all of his worried, needing to reassure that wonderful woman during the worst tempest of her life "I did. I do," he gently kissed her forehead, "Isobel, I care for you more than anything else in this world, I really - "

Again she took his face in her hands, kissing him soundly and cutting him off. This time, he did not stop himself, he simply hold her to him, kissing her with all the passion he had felt for her since the first days of their weird friendship, if friendship it could be called.

"Richard..." she moaned softly his name, surprised by his lips on her jaw, and trembled a little in his arms.

"Not here, not now, my dear," he repeated his words aging and squeezed her hips, smiling regretfully at her, "You need to stay with your son. He needs you more than me."

"But _I_ need you!" she emphasized the word, squeezing his forearms, her body pressed against his, "I cannot do it without you, I came back from France hoping you'll help me, I came back holding on that very kiss at the train station!" there were fresh tears in her deep eyes now, "You cannot leave me, you - "

It was a certain satisfaction that he silenced her, it was his time now to cut her off with a soaring kiss, "I'm not leave you, I'll never do that. But not now, he needs you."

"Matthew's sleeping. Mary has left and he's sleeping. There's a nurse with him, now, she had already explained me his conditions, and - "

"And you'll be there for him when he'll wake up."

"I'm not that strong," she blinked, trying to keep at bay the tears, failing, "He's broken, and I can not help him."

"You're strong," tenderly, he brushed away the tears, trying to infuse strength in her, "You're so very strong... stay with him, talk to him, whatever he needs. Then..." suddenly unsure of his idea, he trailed off, dropping his gaze and lowering his hand from her face to her waist. Yes, he had assumed she needed him, but he had no idea about how much she was willingly to give him.

"Then?" she asked, cupping his cheek with her small hand and raising his face to her, "The what, Richard?"

"Then you know where I live, if you need... if you want... I..."

"I need to. I want to," her head came dangerously close to his, her lips caressing slightly his chin, "Can I stay the night? I'll eat here, but can I stay then? I don't want to be alone at Crawley House..."

"If you want..." his voice equally lower, he stroke her cheek, barely aware of where they were, "But only if you're sure."

"I am."

Richard smiled, a small yet happy smile, pretending to surrender to her wit, "I cannot stop you then, I think."

"No, you can't," she kissed him again, closing the small gap between their lips, and he had to use all of his strength to draw back from her and prevent things to escape from their control.

"You must go."

Isobel smiled and nodded, withdrawing from him and heading to the door. She throw a last glance to him before going out. "See you later. Thank you."

Richard managed to put on a weak smiled and watched her slim figure disappearing back the door, immediately missing her. He looked at the dark wood of the door, helplessly, voicing the words he had not been able to tell her soon.

"I love you."

* * *

When she had finally arrived at his house, long after dinner time and just after the last round at the hospital, he had simply scooped her up in his arms and carried her upstairs to his bedroom, gently putting her down on his bed and leaving her some times to get comfortable. He could understand her need to not be alone, and he was grateful she had chosen to spent with him her first night home. So there she was, engulfed in the heavy sheets and in his arms, wearing only her shift and absently playing with the hems of his pajama shirt.

"You kissed me at the train station," she murmured after a long silence.

"I did," he simply answer, wandering for a moment why she was remembering that again and what was she meaning with it, worrying himself about it.

"Why, Richard?" her deep brown eyes met his, a sweet look in them, a look that ease down his sudden preoccupation.

"Because I don't simply care about you, Isobel. I love you," he whispered softly, never lowering his gaze, "Because I've loved you for more time than what I'm ready to admit."

"You never told me," she said quite happily, sinking her head back on his chest, snuggling against him.

"I've been quite an idiot, then. I love you."

"And why have you never shown me your love?" there was something in her voice, a light tone, that made him understand that somehow he had managed to distract her from her son's difficult situation, even if for just some hours, and he was glad for it.

She gently hit his arm, her voice soft, taking him out of his thoughts, "You silly, silly man."

"I'm an Englishman, woman, I'm reserved," he shot her a glance, taking her blonde braid and playing nervously with it, "I'm not a Latin, I'm - "

"You're not English," she reminded him, grabbing back her braid, "You're Scottish."

He looked at her puzzled and tried to take again her long hair, failing "And?"

Isobel smiled smugly at him, lifting her body from his, definitely she was happy now, her shift slightly falling from her shoulder, "Aren't the Scots supposed to be more passionate than Englishmen? More hot-heads?"

He bursted out in laugh, falling against the headboard of the bed and covering his eyes with his hand, "I'm afraid, my beautiful one, I've lived in Yorkshire long enough to lose my Scottish boldness."

"Well, yes, you seem a little bit... meek, as to say."

Richard opened his fingers and she saw his blue eyes glancing at her, "Meek? Oh, really, meek?"

"A little bit, yes," a small smile danced on Isobel's mouth, a smile, an happiness, she hadn't felt for a long time, a smile she was happy it was him to bring to her lips.

"Never tease a Scotsman about his boldness, my dear. As long as it's a Scotsman who ironies about his own passionate ways it's okay, but when it came to an English..."

He quickly withdrew from the headboard and approached her, taking her by surprise and pulling her down against the mattress, "Specially when it comes from a beautiful English woman like you... don't tease me, my dear."

She saw the glint in his eyes, saw them darkened with desire, and felt the way his body was pressed against hers. She smiled, triumphally, "I don't believe you," again, that glint in his eyes, "Show me, Scotsman."


End file.
